AUGUST 11, 2024

Natalie

“Already two?” I say, glancing at the clock mounted on the wall across from the nursing station, a few feet below the security camera. Stretching, I fight off a yawn and turn to look beside me.

Debbie is slouched in her chair, mouth slightly open, a soft snore escaping with every breath. On her other side, Trey hunches over his phone, whispering into a video call with his long-distance girlfriend. Technically, we’re not supposed to sleep or be on our phones during shifts, but they seem to think the rules don’t apply to them.

I try to be understanding. Trey’s relationship seems to be what keeps him going, while Ashley handles both work and raising her two children on her own. Still, lately, they’ve been taking advantage of my kindness. When a resident’s call bell goes off while they’re trying to take a break, they get irritated, and sometimes that frustration is taken out on the residents. That’s not acceptable, and I can’t keep ignoring it. We’re here to care for people, not to make them feel like a burden.

I brought it up with them recently, hoping for a mature conversation, but it only created some tension between us. That’s when I spoke to Gerald, our Director of Care, and ever since then, they have become a bit vengeful. Now they go out of their way to call me for every little thing they could easily handle themselves. Small things they never used to bring to my attention. It feels like they are committed to making my busy shifts even busier.

It’s frustrating, especially when they interrupt me for no real reason while I’m working hard, trying to sneak in a quick tea break. What annoys me even more is how they keep breaking the rules, right under the cameras, as if they couldn’t care less. Honestly, a little respect would go a long way. Feel free to chat in your language while on break and maybe try not to snore near someone who’s working. You’d think common courtesy would be, well, common. Apparently, it’s not.

Ugh. I take a calming breath, hiding my irritation. “It’s round time,” I say.

Without glancing up, Trey murmurs distractedly, “Mm-hmm.” I stand, sliding my chair back, and leave the nursing station.

I start my round with Room 1. Frances Davis is lying motionless in bed, her chest rising and falling gently under the thin blanket. She’s facing the door, breathing softly. The diffuser on the bedside table hums quietly, filling the room with the calming scent of lavender. A cool breeze drifts through the slightly open window, carrying the fragrance into every corner.

I hover near the dresser, taking my time. I don’t have to, but I know better than to be careless. If anyone ever questions my actions – not that they will, I’m a trusted nurse – I can always tell them to check the camera. “Why do you think I was in her room for so long? I was ensuring her comfort and repositioning her before deciding whether she needed medication.”

After a few minutes, I step out and make my way to the med room. I unlock the narcotics locker, grab an Ativan, and drop it into a paper cup before heading back.

I re-enter Room 1, wrap the pill in a tissue, and slip it into my pocket. Tossing the empty cup in the garbage, I turn to leave.

That’s when I feel it.

Eyes.

I freeze, pulse racing. Slowly, I turn.

Frances is awake. She’s staring at me, unblinking. Her gaze is too sharp, cutting through the dimness like a knife.

Damn it.

A spurt of anger tightens my jaw, yet I attempt a faint, hollow smile. I quickly step out of the room, my heart pounding in my chest. Heat floods my face, and sweat dampens my palms. My feet feel like they’re cemented to the floor, refusing to move. I drag forward, each step an effort.

Frances won’t be a problem. Not now, anyway. Her mind is fogged by medication, her speech slurred, and her thoughts all over the place. But she wasn’t always like this. A few months ago, before they started her on that cocktail of antipsychotics, she was sharp. And normal. What if the doctor or her power of attorney decides to cut back her medications? What if she regains clarity? What if she remembers? That thought alone sends a shiver down my spine. I shake it off and keep walking. “Relax. Walk normally,” I remind myself.

The nursing home is a small, rectangular building tucked into a quiet corner lot. Thirty-five rooms stretch across two wings, connected by winding hallways. The four exits – two fire doors, a back entrance to the garden, and the front door – are all locked at night for safety. Cameras monitor the main entrances and hallways, constantly reminding us that someone could be watching.

I move down the hall, keeping my steps quiet on the worn linoleum. It’s peaceful, aside from John, my favourite resident, snoring like a freight train, and Irene, another resident with chronic insomnia, watching TV.

Back at the nurse’s station, I log into the computer. Frances still has her Ativan order – 1 mg as needed for seizures. She hasn’t had a seizure in months. The last dose administered was almost a year ago.

I type, “1 tablet given for restlessness.”

Trey lifts his head, finally off the phone with his long-distance girlfriend.

“Frances was pretty restless,” I say, trying to sound casual.

He frowns. “She was asleep when we went in.”

“Not when I checked,” I respond quickly. “Had to give her an Ativan.”

“She has an Ativan order?” he asks, confused. “Didn’t know she was ever violent,” he adds, not convinced.

“Ativan isn’t only for aggression; it also helps with anxiety or restlessness,” I reply, careful to leave out the detail that Frances’s Ativan is specifically for seizures. “Oh, she was aggressive, though.” I steer the topic away. “She’s only been like this for about six months now. Before that, she was a total nightmare. I don’t think you’d even started working here at that time.”

We fall into our usual banter – gossiping about Frances and the other residents and then slipping into more significant topics, like how the evening staff leaves us with extra work or how the day crew always shows up late. The conversation picks up when Debbie stirs from her nap, her vivacious voice adding some life to the room. But no matter what we talk about, I can’t focus. My mind keeps drifting back to the pill in my pocket and how Frances stared at me like she knew I was up to something shady.